There’s this flower bloom I can’t
misplace, it grows in slow
motion
breaking skin-tight enclosures
once holding
in passions now
strung fickle and embarrassingly
outward.  It could be erased with a touch
of a finger, pressed
back into seed
to rise again brilliantly. I can smell its
broken green, pungently gathering
itself to show
another time.  It smells young,
as if hammered smooth of shame
lit lightly by sun-tips
forcing
features unseen to be beauty
placed blindly by
itself.

In the midst of it all,
in the mist
or did we miss it all?
That word, that talk,
that thing that never satisfied us,
we tried, though we spent more time thinking of trying,
lying beside lies to make
ourselves feel something—sometimes.

Medications never work, and love is never
sick,
So said a prophet, I think,
whose name I miss,
maybe because I missed it.  We live, for sure,
I am sure of it,
though this romance is lost in the downbeats that
skip between us
frequently.

Apparently it’s air—
where this future
that never can be is fitting. Breaking itself
down into chemical
components, between breaths held and those
lost, revealing timidly its
escape from us.

There’s this farm-silence
that only a house
fly could break.  It’s left
me with quick-heart questionings
where I seem to
forget what
companionship is—a love grown in small-talk
soils for fancy’s sake,
brought to life by wild
imaginings, Frankenstein-like.

This pop-culture love
divvied up into zip-lock bags,
labeled and
traded for
soft affiliations, paraded
in the eyes of
deal-makers.
They’ve profited little but a
malleable
plastic labeled thing of
their own
creation.

Your skin looks good in
moonlight,
phosphorescence bright
pale and god-like.  I could jump onto your
sound-waves that call me,
hitting eardrums in
clearly spoken
whispers, a noiseless clarity. I could
climb them, secretly
wrapping them
around wrists
pulling me
closer to join you
quietly,
as though never present.

As you call, I
fear to crash down on it all, deleting
this moment
made in madness under
dark stars that brought
this here.  Slowly, I leap into the sea
where I can always
touch you
through salt thickened water amongst
moon-shadows
laid delicately,
here,
in nobody’s place.

It feels like blood is in the ink
between the air I breathe and the pages I hold—
fabricating itself into something
simple.
A mere sentiment set
loose from mind in
merry pre-thoughts where
freedom seems to
sit un-tethered.  The rhythm here
fights pleasantly,
pulling roughly at strings
that spew out silence to the outside.

She was timid-faced, eyes and breath
abated,
head full of thoughts fresh off the streets
incomplete and
passion-strung.  One thing’s clear, she loves through each
breath she holds
for my answer.  She lives.  I can
feel the pulse of it all
convulsing inside
her.
She’s scared I’ll miss it, as if this
ether-thing can be grasped to
begin with. It floats in
fast paced hearts and
obsessions
focused too clearly on one thing,
certainly.

Perhaps a tiny part of her soul is
contained within the walls
of her tears. They
travel perfectly down,
cleaning the skin’s imperfections
gripping onto their maker,
intensely.  If only I could
hear the escaped
soul as the
tear
smashes down, violently
breaking it’s
borders.

This dry throat can’t make words,
describing the chances I’ve
missed that
cling to decisions made now, then
reflect
in my eyes
where I meet myself in
midnight-mirrors.

Your flowers still sit on my floor
by my couch. I smell them through naps and
sweep the dead
petals, cautiously
throwing away what
once was
life.

How will I enjoy peace?
My life of dreams
of randomness
felt
like youth filled breaths behind gas stations,
clean,
like intentions intending the unknown not
yet turned bad.

Tell me how to live now that
moments leave me wanting,
tell me how to decipher this feeling
that holds no sense to thoughts but they
mix
like dancers’ young skins touch excitement.

This seems all too real,
so let me reveal this narrative I’ve made.

My mind is like the thing that never wants to
let itself go,
but pretends to.
My character is what my mind has made it,
I make-believe that this is real,
but what is real skips upon plot lines like omniscience would,
but then realizes it’s all too
fake and will
crash into a climax sometime.
This rapid unravelling of plot lines
leaves voices stuck on pages turned that
pound through walls to let me know I can’t touch them.

So, write this down, I am alive.
It looks nice on paper.
Think this later, you are surrounded by it.
Escape my thoughts now, because maybe I never will.
Hear this,
let music dip my desires into nothingness.

Don’t tell me of hippie
lies with minds in
hands and brains in heads,
feet rough from treading lightly
in sandals that wrap around feet—
like life’s drugs wrap around understanding.

Don’t tell me of a hippie’s dance that never ends,
where rhythm catches the winds encounters and
where melody is in a river’s water,
crashing into down strokes of
strong beats.

Don’t tell me of a body pure,
where sober minds lean on the soil’s foundations
with bodies striped of ill intentions, as though they can
control them.

Give her cancer, hippie,
with colors to make
it covered with happiness and dye to make
what is not really—
with minds in hands
Contort your present pictures into veils.

*nothing against hippies!

The ashy air clings to her neck,
her beauty slips
fast
off her face.
Her youth jolted me
once,
it lingers in her eyes still, and
mine.

Bar worker, groped and poked,
safety is far from here.
Agelessness to age,
it taps on the walls she sleeps within
nagging at the dignity she
keeps.
These mirrors look back
much longer than
before.
Holding hands with saints
that don’t seem to care and
though they hang
from her neck in confidences clean
they dip into drinks
mixed for other
untouchables.
Yet, these ones seem to give tips,
As lips beg for more.